How right they were, many of them never knew. Certainly ferocious demons walked the mountain trails that night. Arriving invisibly on the wings of the wind, they killed the sentries. One particular demon invaded the tent of the supreme commander. With a single swift blow he drove his dagger straight through the heart of the Tartar general. No one knew that that particular demon was named An Lu-shan.
In the morning, consternation broke out among the Kitan Tartars. Fear rippled over their forces, felling them as by a plague. What chance had they against the soldiers of China who were in league with demons? What proof existed that they had not even evoked the help of the dragons who slept under the mountains? As they turned to flee in panic, the forces of the Emperor swept down upon them and slaughtered them with such ferocity and in such numbers that the roads were blocked and for months afterwards, travelers avoided that section of the border because of the stench of rotting bodies.
It mattered not in the least to An Lu-shan that in slaying the Kitans, he was slaying his own people. All that mattered was victory, the pungent taste of the wine of victory.
In appreciation of his service to the Empire, Li Lin-fu, the Premier, had brought him to the Capital. Li Lin-fu heard his account of the battle with no little degree of gratification, for it had been he who had pushed An Lu-shan forward.
